An Awkward Moment in the Changing Room
by bleak reality
Summary: Much to his dismay, Draco is forced to share the Gryffindor changing room with *Potter* (slight slash)


This contains very slight Draco/Harry slash. Complain about it and I'll do you the dubious honour of ignoring you.

"You're _not_ serious."

The Slytherin leant against the doorframe, arms crossed as he surveyed the room. His eyes locked on the opposing seeker, still dressed in casual gear after practice. "Unfortunately Potter, I _am_ serious. The Weasel twins have managed to dissolve most of our changing room, and therefore I have to use your's."

"Can't you use another team's?"

"All locked."

"Oh well," he turned, pulling a folded towel from a shelf and walking calmly away. "Close the door Malfoy, there's a draft."

Draco pushed away from the wall and obeyed, slamming the wood hard. A pile of shin pads beside him jumped as if surprised and toppled, spilling across the floor. From the shower stalls he heard a laugh and a muffled "Temper, temper."

Which of course didn't help.

Muttering curses, he stripped off his muddy robes and glowered at the pile of clothes Potter had left on the bench near his stall. They were clean.

Damn and blast Potter for being able to stay on his broom during a fight. Damn and blast Potter for starting a fight the one time Draco didn't have any back up.

He took down a clean towel - yellow embroidered with a red lion - and wrapped it around his waist before ducking past Potter and into his own stall.

"Do you sing in the shower Malfoy?" he heard over the sound of water.

"What? No." Draco hung his towel on a peg then turned the tap and stepped under the spray. Potter's laugh echoed off the tiled walls.

"There is a God!"

Draco growled and raked fingers through his hair, combing out the mud and dirt he'd collected after losing the airborne duel.

Damn and blast Potter for being a winner.

Fragmented lyrics from some obscure song floated through the steam as water pummelled aches from his shoulders.

Damn and blast Potter for singing in the shower.

" . . . what I feel is nothing but the taste of you, I get buried in your mouth . . . "

Why did _he_ have to choose such words?

" . . . look at the moon but I see only you . . . "

"Shut it Potter."

Another laugh as he came to the chorus. "I'll fall for you . . . "

"Potter," Draco turned and glared at the wall between them as if he could silence him that way. "Stop caterwauling."

"You know you like it, Dray."

"_Dray?_"

Potter laughed yet again and went right back to singing, obviously enjoying himself. Draco snatched a washcloth and soap and tried to ignore him. Why was it that Potter being pleasant and cheerful was more infuriating than his usual barrage of would-be-witty remarks?

His nemesis sang and hummed a rather long medley, stringing together some tunes that Draco recognised and others he didn't, and at times drumming the beat on the soap rack.

Eventually there was a squeaking noise as he turned the taps and shut off the water. Draco remained in the shower for a minute longer than he had to, not wanting to find his enemy in a compromising state of undress. Because although it could be fun to mock him, Draco would also be in nothing but a Gryffindor towel, and such a state of affairs was more than he felt he could handle.

Noticing his fingers pruning, he turned off the shower and grabbed his towel, slinking out into the open.

Potter was already dressed in his clean pair of jeans, drying his hair. Unnoticed behind him, Draco paused. He could see the shape of bones under his enemy's pale skin, shoulder blades casting shadows over protruding ribs. Muscles slid fluidly as Potter kneaded the towel through his hair, and suddenly Draco couldn't look away. He'd never just stood and watched anyone like this, another living being totally unaware of his presence.

Potter was thin, and had a wiry look he was probably doomed to keep for life. Being a Quidditch Seeker required being light, quick, and agile, and he was perfect for the role. Draco felt an urge to step forward and trace of the contours of Potter's taught skin stretched over flat muscles and the bones of his spine.

But he didn't, and only snatched up his things and retreated behind a row of lockers to get dressed.

Had he just been watching _Potter_? Of all people, _Potter_?

Draco thought back to all the times he'd been foiled by the Boy Who Shouldn't Have Lived. He gritted his teeth at the memory of the bouncing ferret, the towel rasping harder than necessary against his skin. 

Potter had humiliated him. Potter had gotten him in endless trouble, and yet always evaded the worst of it himself. There was the time he saved the dragon for the giant's sake and Draco got detention. The time he rode that Hippogriff that almost killed Draco. The way he laughed with his friends while Draco slammed into the floor again and again, shrunk and twisted in the shape of a rodent he hated.

And he hated Potter. That was a fact.

But still, just because they were enemies wasn't a reason to deny Potter looked good without his shirt on. Very good. And damn and blast Potter for that too.

"Hey, Dray!"

Draco quickly pulled up his trousers and fastened them as Potter stuck his head around the row of lockers.

"Stop calling me that, _Harrykins_."

"What would you say to another match sometime? One on one, whoever gets the snitch first wins, same as today."

"Why? So you can make sure we have an audience for when I beat you?"

"Actually, I thought Hermione and Ron would like to see you on your face in the mud, seeing as they missed it this time."

Draco turned away, picking up a shirt and snapping the creases out of it.

"Come on Dray, it'll be fun. Mud's very good for the skin you know. Hey, I bet that's your secret."

"Shut it Harrykins."

"I mean, how else could you have such perfect porcelain skin _all over_?"

Draco hurried to yank on his shirt and get it buttoned up but in his haste one arm became stuck. As several threads gave way, Potter laughed again and caught his bare shoulder.

"Let me help," so saying, his sworn enemy turned him around, straightened the tangled sleeve of the black cotton shirt, pulled it up over his shoulders, and began fastening the buttons with exaggerated care.

Draco couldn't move. He knew very well that this was just a joke, he knew very well that he'd suffer for this later, but all the same he couldn't brush aside Potter's hands and step away.

Damn and blast Potter for having such wonderful smelling hair. Damn and blast him for being so attractive but so horribly annoying. Damn and blast him for buttoning the shirt too quickly. Damn him for his smile and blast him for his cheery wave as he left the changing room.

The Slytherin sat down heavily on a bench, absently pulling on his socks and shoes while he cursed his nemesis for all he was worth. And then some.

~~~~~

The only reason I wrote this was to see if I could allow Draco an opportunity to check out Harry but remain more or less in canon character. Did it work?

Oh, there was another reason. I (for one) can _not_ see how Quidditch is meant to give someone lots of big muscles. I mean, Harry does nothing but sit on a broom and occasionally move his arms. That's hardly going to account for the physique some writers give him. So, in my head, he's thin and small and wiry. Kind of like a very lean sprinter. Disagree? Bite me. ^ẅ^


End file.
